Canticle of Transfigurations
by BlackMagicians
Summary: / They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. / She is helpless, unable to resist, as she is pulled down a path she had never wanted to follow. She is dead if she tries. The Commander is her lifeline, the last light in the dark, but even he is unable to look at what she has become.
1. Chapter 1

"I love you," he murmured.

Pink stained her cheeks as she turned her head away and pretended to be unaffected. "You hardly know me," she chided him, busying herself with smoothing her skirts down over her crossed legs.

"I know you well enough to know you are the loveliest thing I have ever seen, and I'd be a fool to let you walk away from me. Please, Evelyn, give me a chance to show you how I feel."

"Hmm..." She drew the syllable out, pleased that he was so desperate for her affection. "I suppose I could give you a chance."

"Excellent." The smile he flashed her was boyish in its delight, lighting up his face with a beauty that was breath-taking.

He was, she thought, the most attractive man she'd ever seen. Gold curls tumbled across his forehead, artfully styled to full advantage, framing a face that would make the Maker weep. She would be lying if she said she hadn't dreamt of him naked underneath her, that beautiful body bare for her approval.

He was perfect. The whole evening was perfect; they were sat in the gardens, hidden away from the world, as the sun set, gilding the greenery with vibrant reds and golds. The stone bench was small enough that their thighs pressed together, and even though the layers of skirt and his uniform, she imagined she could feel the heat of his body. Varric would love it, she decided, as the scene had been stolen straight from a fairytale.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise as he slid from the bench next to her, turning with liquid grace to arrange himself on one knee. "I hope this isn't too presumptuous," he told her, nervously, "but I had this made for you."

 _This_ turned out to be an elaborately wrapped box, and she pulled the ribbons undone with unfeigned delight, hands exploring the lush velvet paper as she unwrapped the gift.

"Oh!" Opening the box revealed a locket, the silver wrought in delicate impressions of twisting vines, precious stones used in place of flowers. She stroked a finger across the polished surface and sought the clasp, though opening it revealed only empty glass. "It's beautiful. Really. I can't thank you enough."

He smiled again, and she was unable to tear her eyes away as he rose to fasten it around her neck. "I thought we could have a portrait done to put inside it," he breathed against her neck as he hovered there for a moment, pressing a chaste kiss to her bared shoulder.

Caught in the romance, it was easy to forget herself and be swept away by the fantasy. Here, she was not the Inquisitor, just a young woman enjoying the attentions of a potential paramour.

"Inquisitor." Not that, it seemed, she could escape the title for long. She tried not to scowl as the Commander rounded the hedge, fixing her companion with a thin-lipped stare of disapproval as he stepped away from her. "A report just arrived for you."

"Ah, I'm sorry." Despite the Commander glaring daggers at him, Gabriel shot the templar a smile as he extended a hand to Evelyn to help her up. "I am keeping you from your duty. Please, go."

She let herself be pulled to her feet, attempting to not let her irritation leak through. "I hope we can continue this at another time," she told her would-be lover.

"I would be delighted." He bowed and kissed her arm, and nodded respectfully at Cullen. Given how obvious the Commander has made his dislike of the Duke, she is impressed at Gabriel's continued politeness.

The Commander shadowed her as she made her way back across the grounds of the castle, and she chafed at his constant, silent presence. He doesn't stop until she does, and continues to stand watching her as she peels away the wax sealing the missive.

"Want to read it to me, as well?" All softness from earlier has evaporated and she spits the words at him, too irritated to waste time with being civil. Out of sight of others, she doesn't see the point in hiding the mutual dislike that hangs heavy between them.

"It is my duty to make sure you are safe, Inquisitor. That duty does not stop just because you want to make cow eyes at the Duke."

She rolled her eyes and ignored him, scanning through the scribbled lines of text instead. It is nothing more than an update on Skyhold's current situation, and she realises she has interrupted her evening for something that could easily have waited until the morning. She balled the paper in her fist as she realised the Commander likely knew that too, and had interrupted her regardless.

"We are protected by a castle, built on the most defensible ground in Wycome, surrounded by Duke Gabriel's men. How much safer can I be?"

"I don't trust him. Like it or not, you are vital to the Inquisition, and I will not let you risk yourself for some silly romance."

"Let me?" Incredulity threaded through her voice as she turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't recall needing your permission to do anything. Last I checked I was still the Inquisitor, and you my humble adviser."

"Indeed." He ground his teeth together and tried to stare her down, but she had faced far worse than him. "Fine. Let him buy you with trinkets and pretty words. I shall do my duty anyway, Maker preserve me."

"I appreciate your permission," she shot at his back as he turned on his heel and left, leaving her blessedly alone. Once she was sure he was gone, she smoothed out the crumpled paper in her hand, and read through it again. With Corypheus defeated, she found herself away from Skyhold more often than not, but she always looked forward to returning. Even though the majority of her companions had moved on to other things, it was still home. Far more than the Circle had ever been, and the hazy memories she had of her family were not strong enough for her to feel any particular pull to her birthplace.

She sighed and wiped a hand across her forehead. While she didn't want to admit it, the Commander was probably right; this was not the time to be indulging her silly desires. Orlais and Fereldren were still at each other's throats, poised on the brink of war, and she had come to the Free Marches seeking allies, not bedmates.

Then again, she considered, taking the Duke of Wycome as a lover would cement him as an ally. Vivianne had certainly seemed to approve, though the mage had only visited for an afternoon.

They were due to journey on to Starkhaven in a handful of days. She would let the romance play out a little more, then regretfully take her leave with promises they would keep in contact. It was a shame, as she would have enjoyed getting to know Gabriel more.

She smiled as she rubbed her thumb against the locket. What harm could be done in a few days? He deserved some appreciation for such a lovely gift.

"That was divine."

Evelyn curled into the furs, struggling to keep her eyes open. The compliment made her lips quirk into a self-satisfied smile.

"You weren't so bad yourself," she countered, teasing a finger along the sharply defined muscle of his chest. The sex had been everything she'd expected; soft and sensual, he'd focused on her pleasure, until she'd finally come with his name on her lips. A gentleman in the bedroom as well as out.

Not wanting to risk a pregnancy, he'd pulled out and finished on her belly. Sticky as it was, she was too content to leave the bed to find something to clean up with. Gabriel chuckled and rolled towards her, cupping a hand across her jaw before he bent his head to kiss her.

"I mean it," he murmered. "I doubt there's anyone like you in all of Thedas."

"Flatterer." She tilted her head so she could kiss him again. "I wish I could delay our trip to Starkhaven longer."

"If I had my way, you would never leave at all." Ignoring her mewling protest, Gabriel slipped out from under the covers and padded along to the desk on the side. She watched, curious, as he decanted a bottle of wine into two glasses.

"A little something to celebrate. I promise you've never had wine like it."

She wriggled up in bed to accept the glass, raising it so the crystal clinked against his. "To tonight, then, since we can't have tomorrow."

While perhaps not the best she'd tasted, the wine was smooth and fruity, and easy to drink. Eager to sleep, she finished the glass quickly, and flashed Gabriel a smirk as he laughed and followed suit.

It didn't take long to realise something wasn't right. She'd gone from warm to freezing, goosebumps racing across her exposed flesh, and she shivered as waves of nausea battled through her. "Something's wrong," she managed, weakly, as Gabriel came to stand beside the bed.

"Didn't like the wine?" He stroked her cheek again. "I suppose magebane isn't to everyone's tastes. Clumsy, Inquisitor."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She gasped as her stomach cramped, clutching at it in a desperate attempt to stop the pain. It was enough to make tears well in her eyes, though she battled them back. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"Bastard," she managed instead, snapping the word at him through clenched teeth. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Nothing personal. There was a lot of money involved, and a better alliance for Wycome than you could offer." He drew a sword from the side of the bed, and looked down at her regretfully. "I wasn't lying, you know. I really did enjoy myself. It's a shame things didn't work out differently."

She tenses, but there's little she can do as he slides the tip of the sword along her breasts, drawing a fine line of blood. Despite knowing it will be futile, she attempts to draw on her magic, and the resulting kickback nearly makes her throw up.

Without her magic, she is helpless, even without the crippling pain. It's almost amusing to think of how she's survived so much, against such impossible odds, only to die in such a mundane way.

The crackle of green light, mostly hidden by the blankets, surprises her. It seems she is not entirely cut off from power. In desperation she stretched her hand out towards him, but he just laughed at her.

"You're cut off from your magic, sweetheart. Waving your hands at me isn't going to do anything." The tip of his sword has come to rest just below her heart, angled up. At least her death will be quick. "I'd better get on with this before your guard dog has a chance to interrupt again."

She closed her eyes in acceptance, only to open them again in wide-eyed amazement as light rips out from her hand. It tears a new split in the air, centred on Gabriel, and she tries not to listen to the screams as it rips him apart. It's a struggle, but she manages to stop the flow of power before the rift stabilises, and it winks out of existence with a loud pop.

What's left of Gabriel is in a pile on the floor, and she has been spattered with his blood. Parts of him appears to have evaporated along with the rift, but she is in too much pain to examine it too closely. Enough, for now, that she has survived.

Frantic voices can be heard at the door, and someone rattles it firmly, though the heavy bolt prevents it from opening. _Please don't be the Commander_ , she prays, as her world fades to black.

When she wakes up, she finds herself back in her own quarters. Someone, probably the girl asleep on a chair by her side, has cleaned her up and dressed her in plain bedclothes. Light filters through the window, softened by gauze curtains, and everything is oddly serene.

As if the night before – she hoped she hadn't lost more time than that – hadn't been more than a nightmare.

Well. It was better than she'd feared. She was alive, and nobody had thrown her into the jail. There were no obvious guards in the room, though they could be posted outside the door, and they'd let her have one of her own people in the room with her.

Carefully, not wanting to wake the sleeping girl, she slipped out from under the covers. The movement makes her head spin, but otherwise she doesn't feel too bad. Hesitantly, she reached for her magic, fighting against the terrifying emptiness. A tiny flame flickered into existence in her palm, lasting barely a few heartbeats, but it is enough to eyes slide closed in blessed relief. Weak, but still there.

With careful, measured movements, she pulled her travelling armour from the trunk at the end of her bed. This is not the time for the fine gowns she'd brought to discuss politics; unsure of whether they will want her head or not, she will dress for war. It was comforting to be back in the worn leathers, and she buckled her vambraces with grim determination.

What is one Free Marches city compared to a dragon?

She cursed her own stupidity when she realised there were no lyrium potions amongst her belongings. That will have to wait until later. Instead, she straps twin daggers to her hips, feeling too vulnerable to leave the room with no weapons. She has no great skill with them, but they will at least give her the illusion of being armed. Her hair, she is sure, looks dreadful, so she plaits it with combat efficiency.

Putting on a mask of bravado, she flung the door open, relieved to find it hadn't been locked. She recognises the two templars on her door, which is another good sign, and some of the tension drained from her as they snapped to attention and saluted her.

"Your Worship. The Commander is waiting for you next door."

Of course he was. Part of her wanted to rebel, to just walk past the door and face the situation on her own, but it frustrates her to know that she'd be acting a child to do so. She doesn't know how long she was out, or what has happened in the meantime, and she would be foolish to eschew his wisdom to pander to her personal feelings. Whatever she might think of him, she couldn't deny his genius for military strategy.

She swallows her pride and enters the next room. Unsurprisingly, the Commander has converted the parlour to a base of operations. Paper covers most of the free surface space, some knocked aside to nestle between lace cushions, and two messengers are stood, ready for orders, on either side of him. He is in the middle of penning some new response, though he puts the quill down as he hears her enter.

"Inquisitor." As always, his face was impassive, making it even more difficult for her to get a reading on the situation.

"Commander. Since I didn't wake up in chains, can I hope they aren't calling for my head?"

"Most of the nobility has sided with the Inquisition. After we found Duke Gabriel's remains, and you passed out next to them, we searched his quarters. We found correspondence from Par Vollen."

Ah. That explained who had paid for the assassination, and whose favour Gabriel had sought.

"They'll be installing a new Duke within days, then," she said, with forced joviality. This was the second Duke dead within a year, and the Inquisition had been involved both times. She doubted anyone would welcome them back.

"Indeed." He frowned and looked down at the table. "The official story is that he was a Ben-Hassrath assassin. He tried to kill you during the night, and you fought him off in self-defence."

Close enough, though she doubted it would stop people from gossiping. Their romance had hardly been the most subtle of affairs, brief as it had been, and it wouldn't be long before the entire city knew that Duke Gabriel had been found dead in his private quarters.

"I am disappointed with your recklessness, but at least you are alive and unharmed. The healer believes you will be fully recovered within the day. I suggest we do not delay our continuation to Starkhaven any longer. We should leave at dawn."

It was difficult to stand and listen to him tell her _I told you so,_ but she nodded with forced serenity. "I agree. So long as Prince Vael is still willing to receive us, we should depart as soon as possible." Better to be out of here, and let more talented diplomatic hands deal with any problems from a distance.

He plucked a missive from the desk and passed it to her. "The messages we received earlier suggest he still favours the visit. By all accounts, they were not on the best terms."

Willing to meet, perhaps, but she doubted anyone would be quite so quick to seek out her bed. The image of Gabriel, ripped apart by a nascent rift, comes to her mind unbidden, and she has to repress a flinch. She can still feel his hot blood on her arms, and doubts she'll feel clean until she finds a hot bath.

For now, she has too much to do. The Commander's words are reassuring, but they do not fill in any of the details, and she has no desire to remain here and extend the discussion. She has letters of her own to write, and likely plenty to read, and she wants to get a feel of the city's mood for herself.

The Commander is occupied again with his correspondence, so she doesn't feel guilty about letting her eyes wander over his face, lingering on the scar cutting across his lip. She wonders if she would hate him quite so much if he hadn't made it so clear how little he approved of her so soon after meeting her. It had nipped her fledgling infatuation in the bud, and she has never forgiven him for it.

He is the perfect templar, and she is just another broken mage.

"That will be all for now," she told him, dismissing him, taking petty pleasure in being able to lord her rank over him. "Let me know if anything changes."


	2. Chapter 2

The light filtered through the trees and cast tiger-stripe shadows on her face, illuminating the dense overgrowth with a glow that would have been pretty, if she hadn't been stuck in the saddle for the last six hours and not in the mood to appreciate anything.

Before Haven, she'd never ridden anything other than the small pony at her family's estate. There hadn't been much uses for horses at the tower, and as she'd never expected to leave, she had never been bothered that she hadn't learnt.

Since then, she'd spent more time in the saddle than she cared to think about, and was an adequate rider, if not a particularly enthusiastic one. The horse did what she wanted it to, most of the time, and in a pinch she could fight from the saddle. It didn't stop the burn in her thighs or the ache in her arse, or the fact that she now smelled entirely of horse.

She wished Vivianne had stayed for the return journey to Skyhold, as much as they didn't see eye to eye all of the time, but her fellow mage had given her some cryptic remarks about helping the Circles and swanned off to visit with other Free Marches nobility. She wouldn't be surprised if her own family was among them; devout Andrastians, they had never wavered from the belief that a Circle was the best place for a mage. While Divine Victoria now fought for increased mage freedom, Evelyn knew that many disagreed and sought a return to the old status quo.

Instead, she was left with only her honour guard for company. While she knew some names and faces, most were too intimidated by her station to be easy in her presence, and she'd found herself more or less isolated on the journey. The Commander, thankfully, rode in the train ahead of her. She might long for company, but she was not desperate enough to seek him out.

She somewhat regretted refusing to ride in the carriage. Across the rough terrain, it jolted and bumped enough to leave her with almost as many bruises as riding, but at least she could have done something else. Written letters to people, perhaps, or taken up embroidery. Set the curtains on fire. Anything to break up the dull monotony. Right now, she'd even welcome a demon attack.

Instead, she thought glumly, she was left with only her pride for company. Clicking her tongue, she pressed her heels into the horse's flank and drove him forward into a trot. The soldier ahead of her turned his head at the unexpected noise, but she ignored him and pushed her way out of the train, intending to give the horse free rein for a while.

Used to travelling freely, with only a handful of companions, moving anywhere with a large group was painfully slow. Supply wagons rumbled slowly behind them, limiting the pace even further, and it had taken over an hour for camp to be prepared last night. They even carried a real bed along for her, cleverly designed to come apart for transport, but the ridiculous luxury was just one of an excess of extravagances that only served to extend the journey to unfathomable lengths.

She'd been pleased about the bed to begin with. It had stroked her ego quite nicely for everyone to go to so much effort to keep her comfortable, but the novelty had quickly worn off. She'd managed to sleep on a plain bedroll, soaking wet and freezing, in a badly pitched tent while the wind had howled and she'd cursed the decision to investigate the Storm Coast. She doubted the lack of downy pillows would prevent her sleeping now.

"Your Worship." One of the soldiers had broken off from the others to trail her, horse effortlessly keeping pace with hers. "Is there a problem?"

"No," she replied, sending him a smile. "I just fancied a change of pace. I was falling asleep in the saddle back there."

He nodded and smiled back. Underneath the helmet, his face is bright and innocent, and she wondered how old he was. Sixteen, seventeen? So many had died in in the Arbor Wilds that they'd had to take in a whole wave of new recruits, and there were still so many faces she didn't recognise. That he'd been chosen for the journey suggested he was more than capable, and she was pleased that he caught her eyes and held them, rather than keeping his face averted in respect.

He followed her as she let the horse run, weaving through the trees as she shadowed the main column. The sudden explosion of freedom made her laugh, and she tossed her head back as she directed the horse to jump a fallen tree. This was how they should be making their way to Starkhaven, exploring as they went, rather than sticking persistently to the safe highway that threaded its way between the cities, following the curve of the river. It would have been far quicker, and far more comfortable, to sail to Starkhaven, but the logistical nightmare of trying to get that many men and horses on ships small enough to navigate the river had made it impossible.

Eventually she reined the horse back in and returned to her place in the train, a little more collected. The sun was descending quickly, so it wouldn't be long until the Commander called a halt and they set up camp for the night.

If they pushed hard and the weather was favourable, they could reach Starkhaven before nightfall tomorrow. Much as playing the political games bored her, she would be glad for the ten days spent out of the saddle. Starkhaven was a beautiful place, and she looked forward to being able to explore the city.

Alarmed shouts from the front made her look up in shock as activity rippled through the ranks. An attack? She hadn't thought anyone would be stupid enough to target the large, heavily armoured group, especially on the patrolled highway. Her hands sought the fastenings attaching her staff to her saddle as something exploded in the distance.

Someone screamed. One of hers, or an enemy?

She kicked the horse forward, around the guard that was trying to form up around her. One of them tried to grab her arm to stop her leaving but she shrugged him off, ignoring whatever he was shouting at her.

Her stomach heaved as she arrived at the front and saw the cause of the explosion. Flames licked at the charred remnants of trees and the smell of burnt flesh permeated as her soldiers cooked in their armour. The amount of magic it would have taken…

She hesitated, concentrating on controlling the horse, fighting to keep it from being panicked by the fire. Facing down mages was nothing new, and the Commander's core troops were templars. She could see them bunching together, edging into formation under his gestured commands, with an ease that spoke of hours of training. The initial blast must have taken them by surprise.

She nudged the horse towards the knot of defenders, relieved to see the situation seemed under control. Smoke stung her eyes, making it difficult to focus on details, but the group facing them across the clearing was surprisingly small. Four figures, all dressed in hooded, dark robes, stood in a line in a centre, surrounded by a ring of heavily-armed warriors. Their mismatched armour and varying races painted them as mercenaries, though the lack of any banner or emblem meant there was no chance of identifying them. Strange that they would have been willing to commit to the attack, as whatever coin they were getting paid couldn't be worth more than their lives.

It was all very strange. Magic crackled through the air, strong enough that she could taste it, far stronger than four mages should be able to conjure up. Bait for an ambush? The Commander's hesitation to attack meant he was considering the possibility as well.

Their decision was made for them as the other warriors sprang forward, slaughtering the troops closest with ease, cutting through their raised shields like butter. Impossible. She glanced backwards to where their own mages were gathered, working in tandem to create a barrier to protect the soldiers. It shimmered in the air for a moment and then splintered, fracturing to blue light as it was effortlessly destroyed.

The enemy pressed on, ripping through the frontline of her troops with terrifying speed. Every breath brought them closer to the knot of Templars in the middle; the Commander, sword raised and face hidden behind that ridiculous lion-faced helmet, made an obvious target. For once, she was ignored, left to dance around the edges of the fight. The Commander, she knew, would order her backwards, and to flee if the situation was unsalvageable. It made sense. She was the Inquisitor, the only one capable of closing rifts and holding the organisation together.

They were just soldiers sent to die on her command.

In truth, she was scared. But she had never been one to turn her back on a fight, even when she risked her own life, and she would not start now. If it had been something she was capable of, she would have abandoned the fledgling Inquisition in Haven, when everything had seemed hopeless.

She wheeled the horse around towards their flank, raising a hand to barrier herself with magic that clung like a second skin. It was like putting on a second set of armour, and it gave her more confidence as the horse barrelled into the trailing edge of the mercenaries. She swung the spirit blade with abandon, cracking the blade against heads and sword arms, though it bounced harmlessly off barriers more often than it caused any damage. Disappointing, but at least her own barrier continued to hold, and the chaos she was causing gave her guard a moment to pull themselves back into formation and go on the offensive.

It was easy to fall into the intricate dance of battle. Thrust, parry, glisé. The horse worked with her; bred for war, it was a weapon itself, and the height advantage stopped most weapons from reaching her. As the templars joined the fight, the flow began to turn the other way as they pushed the warriors backwards, making short work of their magical protection. The Commander was in the middle of it all, and she watched for a second as his shield caught his opponent full in the face, shoving him backwards as his sword ripped through the man standing beside him. Bolstered by the success, the rest of the guard had filled in the lines behind them. After the panic of the original attack, they had remembered their training, and now the shield wall was holding.

Then the ground under her feet exploded. She only just managed to throw herself free as the horse buckled under her and fell sideways, dark eyes bright with panic. She abandoned it and continued onwards on foot instead, pulling magic to her desperately as she fought to join the rest of her forces. She called on fire and lightning, and this time the smell of charred flesh was her fault entirely. She pulled the fade tightly around herself and launched herself forward in a blast of magic, barrelling through anything in her way with enough force to send it flying.

She had just about reached the Commander when the cry went up. "Maleficar!"

She'd been so focused on the battle that she hadn't been paying attention to the mages. They'd moved forwards now, spread themselves further out along the line, and all of them had their hands raised to the heavens. Strings of red light connected from their fingers to the fallen bodies on the floor. Blood, she realised, with sudden dread. They were gorging themselves on the power of the recent deaths.

Retaliation came swiftly. Corpses shuddered, mechanically, to their feet, before a demon burst from each chest. Their claws ripped through flesh without pausing to check allegiance, and mercenaries and her own men alike fell before the tide of monsters.

She gripped her staff as she began to cast a disruption field, but magic plucked her from her feet and sent her sprawling into one of the nearby templars. She cracked her head on the plate armour and cried out in pain.

Gritting her teeth, she crawled towards where her staff had been thrown, and struggled to her feet. What had started out as a party nearly sixty strong was down to only twelve men, and the mercenaries were either dead or had fled when the demons had appeared.

She fought desperately, pulling on her mana until she felt sick, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. At some point, she'd ended up fighting back to back with the Commander, but she knew they would not be able to hold them off forever.

"Run, Inquisitor." Something had smashed into his helmet and the face-plate hung limply from the hinges, leaving his face bare, making his words audible. "We cannot hope to win here. I will do what I can to distract them."

It was hopeless. She scanned the treeline for the best avenue for escape, hand fumbling at her waist until it found her last lyrium potion. It would be enough, Maker be merciful, to get her out of here.

"I don't think so, hm?"

Silence fell as battle abruptly stopped. The demons fell back to curl around the mage who had spoken like affectionate kittens, rubbing across his body as he picked his way through the battlefield. She snarled and tried to conjure a fireball, but her body betrayed her and her hands hung limply by her sides. The mage jerked a hand up and she found herself moving jerkily towards them, as easily controlled as a puppet, until she knelt in the mud and blood before him. He waved his hands again and the Commander dropped down beside her. He snarled and fought against it, and his body quivered as he was forced forwards until his nose kissed the ground.

"That's better. Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect your betters?" He stepped forward and put a hand under Evelyn's chin, tilting it up to study her face. "I'd expected more from Andraste's chosen. You're nothing more than a lost little girl, playing with magic you don't understand. That was embarrassingly easy."

"Stop playing with them, Lucius." Another mage had joined the first. This one was female, she realised, though the robes made it impossible to tell. "I'd rather be gone before anything else turns up."

"Of course. I just hadn't realised she was so young." He let go of her face and pressed a foot to the Commander's shoulders instead, laughing when the man growled.

The woman pressed two fingers to her forehead, and just like that, everything went black for the second time in as many days.


	3. Chapter 3

The cart lurched and Evelyn woke with a gasp.

Panic set in quickly and she struggled, attempting to free her arms from where they were pinned behind her. She was face down and something – straw? – scratched irritably at her face. With her head forced down, it was difficult to see anything, and she cursed her own ineptitude loudly until she managed to struggle up to her knees without the use of her arms.

Nausea rolled through her at the movement, but she managed to keep her stomach down, and peered around her curiously. The only light came in from a single barred window high in the cart, and it was difficult to make out much in the shadows it left.

There were cage bars in front of her, separating her cell from the rest of the cart. It was only just large enough for her to curl up in, and even if she did manage to get herself to her feet, there was not enough room to stand. Someone had covered the floor liberally with straw, but that was the only comfort; there were no blankets, no chamber pot, no food. Her tongue crept out to lick at her parched lips, suddenly desperate for a drink.

"O Creator, see me kneel. For I walk only where You would bid me."

Evelyn startled as she realised she wasn't alone in the cart, though the words, half murmured, were difficult to make out. Her eyes widened as she noticed the men chained to the sides of the wagon, hands and ankles bound with heavy lengths to stop them from moving. She could make out four men, each naked to the waist. Even without their plate, she recognised them as templars, their profession written clear in their broad shoulders.

"Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat."

The words continued, though the voice that spoke them sounded broken, hoarse with pain and thirst. The Commander? No, the man talking was dark haired, though with his face turned towards the floor, she had no hope of recognising him.

The Commander was easy to recognise, as even in the dim light his golden curls stood out. They'd chained him close to her, on the right, close enough that she might have been able to reach out and touch him if she'd had the use of her arms. From the way he hung forward, heavily, on his chains, she guessed he was unconscious.

She pulled on her magic experimentally, trying to force the arm bindings off, and screamed as pain coursed through her. Tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks as she screwed her face up and held her breath until the pain passed.

Well. She wouldn't make the mistake of doing that again. For all that it had hurt, she could not see any visible sign of injury. An enchantment of some type, she guessed, but whether it was designed to stop her from removing the bindings or from using magic, she didn't know.

The noise had woken the Commander up. He jerked awake and struggled briefly with the chains, before he seemed to accept his fate and sit back on his heels. As he turned his head, she could make out the dark line of a gash across his temple; it looked bad enough that she was surprised he was conscious.  
His eyes met hers, and she couldn't help the bright flash of relief that his company brought. There were few who could match his genius for strategy and, while she couldn't bring herself to be glad of his companionship, he was her best hope of escape.

"Inquisitor," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, like the normal brassy tenor had been dragged over sandpaper, but at least he was together enough to talk. "Have you discovered anything about our captors?"

Straight to business, with no questions about how she was, or if she was hurt. She scowled, irritated that she'd felt concerned over his state. "No. I only woke up a few moments before you."

He nodded, then winced. "Blood mages."

If words were enough to kill, Evelyn was sure the venom he poured into them would have poisoned the entire group. While she knew little about his personal history, few hadn't heard of the events at Redcliffe Circle, and she'd overhead the soldiers gossiping about his own role in it. From Redcliffe to Kirkwall, and now here, it seemed he was unable to avoid them.

"Tevinter mages, from their accent and the look of their outfits," she added, though she doubted he hadn't realised.

Strong mages as well, possibly the strongest she'd met, which suggested they occupied a powerful position in Tevinter. Given how well she'd thought the most recent talks with Tevinter had gone, it was surprising that they had attacked her. With the threat of a Qunari invasion becoming more and more likely, they needed the Inquisition's help, or at least their neutrality. Rebels? She hadn't thought the Qunari could penetrate Tevinter so deeply.

"At least we are still alive," she muttered, which was about the most positive thing that could be said about their situation.

"We may wish we weren't." It was too dim to make out much of his expression, which she was thankful for. "Maker be merciful."

They stopped, eventually, when the light was all but gone from the cart. She'd managed to doze off, head spinning and nauseous, though now her legs protested being curled up for hours.

After what seemed like an age of being stationary, the door to the cart was finally opened and men entered. The mercenaries from before, she assumed, though they could have picked up more warriors from elsewhere.

"Fight, and I'll make sure you'll regret it." The guard's voice was calm, impersonal, as she bent to unlock the first templar from the wall, leaving the heavy chains looped around wrists and ankles. He went, meek as a kitten, as they pushed him out of the wagon.

The second was not quite so docile. As soon as his arms were loose, he attempted to throw the chains around the closest man's neck. The woman had clearly been watching for resistance, as she touched a finger to the man's neck and he fell to the floor, instantly limp.

Evelyn scowled. It was the same trick that they'd used on her, and she still didn't understand how.

The demonstration was enough to make the third follow willingly, if hesitantly, as he stepped over his fallen comrade, leaving only the Commander and herself. As they approached him, she wondered if he would roll over for them as well. Part of her wished he wouldn't – it would at least make their defeat less complete – but the practical voice in her head told her that her chances of surviving were far higher with him unharmed.

In the end, it didn't matter. He was unconscious even before the chains were unlocked, though he was carefully pulled from the wagon by two of the waiting guards, unlike the unlucky comrade who was still in a heap on the floor.

Would that happen to her next?

She watched them warily, half-crouched in her cage, as another person entered. Dressed in somber Tevinter robes, with a steel mask covering their face, it was impossible to tell whether they were male or female. No staff, she noticed, nor any other visible weapon. Did they really think her so little a threat?

Her newest captor brushed a hand over the steel bars and the door cracked open. Yet another obstacle in her way; if the lock was magical, there would be no chance of stealing a key or forcing it open, and they'd done something to stop her from accessing her own powers. Her only hope would be that the templars could somehow negate the magic used, but as it was unlikely their new hosts would provide lyrium, they would be as helpless as her.

The mage grabbed her by the upper arm and dragged her, staggering, to her feet. The world lurched and only his continued grip stopped her from toppling over immediately. With her arms pinned behind her back, there was little she could do to fight him off as he tugged her through the wagon, and it took all her concentration to keep from tripping.

For now, she held her tongue. With as little as she knew about this group, she did not want to destroy any chance of goodwill with futile threats and stubborn obstinance. As they were capable of making her do as they wished anyway, she would cling to the tattered remnants of her pride and pretend she had any sort of control over the situation.

She had to duck to get out of the wagon, but the mage seemed to have no intention from letting up on dragging her, and she fell more than walked down the steps and hurried quickly past a number of tents, each a uniform, Spartan canvas construction. The mercenaries, she guessed, as if the mages were anything like Dorian, they would not be sleeping in such basic accommodation.

The sky was nearly dark, though the camp was illuminated by a number of cooking fires and torches. The sudden light made her squint, and most of what she passed was a blur of dark shapes and half illuminated faces. Still, she was no virgin to war, and the number of fires at least gave her an approximation of the number of people here. If there were more than fifty, she'd be surprised. It was possible more could be camped elsewhere, but a flash of hope illuminated her thoughts at the realisation that there were so few. She'd seized forts with more men with just a handful of companions.

The mage leading her abruptly stopped at one of the campfires, and she was pushed roughly to sprawl on the ground. Her knees hit the ground, followed by her shoulders, and grass tickled her nose. Aware of how ridiculous she looked, she struggled angrily back up to her knees, though her guard was busying himself with the pot suspended over the fire. Some type of stew, her nose told her, though the smell of it was enough to make her nearly heave.

She watched him - it was easier to assign them a gender, even if it was wrong - fill a small bowl with the stew and move back to stand in front of her.

"Eat." Distorted by the metal of the mask, the word was heavily muffled, and it was impossible to guess at a gender.

With a casual flick of his hand, the bowl floated next to his forearm, another example of effortless magic. He used his freed hand to tilt her jaw upwards, while the other spooned stew into her mouth.

Like a baby, she thought, burning with humiliation as she tried to swallow around the mouthful despite her stomach's protests. "It'll make me sick," she warned him, though he took no notice, continuing to handfeed her the stew.

Were the templars enjoying such careful attentions? She'd not seen them since they'd been removed, and it was surprising they had separated her off. She hoped it meant they wanted to talk to her. More than anything, the not knowing terrified her, as she was so used to being in control of everything. Helpless, kneeling at the feet of a mage with access to powers she'd never seen before, she may as well still be the untrained mage who'd cried with fright the night before her Harrowing.

By some miracle, she managed to finished the food without losing it again, though the salty meal made her throat burn. She licked at her dry lips. "Have you got any water?"

She'd be damned before she'd beg for it.

He pulled something from a pouch at his waist. A potion, she realised, and cursed herself for stupidity. He put a hand on her chin again, but this time she struggled against it, trying to turn her head away as he attempted to force it into her mouth.

He paused, and backhanded her across the face. Still reeling from the blow, he pinched her nose sharply and tipped the potion down her throat, causing her to swallow it reflexively. It tasted of sweet berries, though the fear of the unknown substance was enough to sour it entirely, and she grimaced as it tingled on the way down.

"Next time, you will not fight, or it will be worse," he warned her, pressing his thumb roughly against her cheek. "Now you are to watch. If you try to help them, they will regret it."

At least she wasn't so thirsty anymore, and she could be relatively confident they wouldn't kill her quite yet. She swallowed down on the manic laugh that threatened to bubble over as she was yanked, again, to her feet, and trotted across the campsite. Maybe he should just invest in a leash and be done with it.

Any fear she had for herself fled as she spotted what the mage had clearly meant for her to wage. Heavy wooden crosses had been erected in front of the largest fire, and someone had suspended the templars from them, wrists tied to the crosspieces. They hung heavily from their arms, but so far, looked relatively unharmed. The wounds they had weren't fresh, mementos of the previous battle.

They'd been stripped entirely, and she was suddenly, painfully, appreciative that they'd left her in the linen shift she'd been wearing under her robes. She watched with sick apprehension as an elvish woman - a slave, probably - painted them with oil that made their skin glisten in the firelight. In any other situation, four naked, oiled templars would have been quite a sight, but the potential horrors still to come meant she hardly saw them. She focused on the youngest templar on the end, seeking cowardly solace in not even knowing his name, and resolutely determined not to look at the Commander at all. If she was forced to watch them break him, her hope would break with it, and she wasn't sure she could stand it.

Another mage dismissed the servant. She recognised her, the woman who'd knocked her out at the battle, though she was no closer to knowing anything about them. Lucius, the only one she did know the name of, was nowhere to be seen.

The templars stirred as the woman talked to them, though Evelyn was too far away to hear anything that was said. Her guard's hand was still a heavy deterrence on her shoulder, warning her not to interfere.

Not that she could do much, she thought bitterly. She was trussed up almost as much as them.

The female mage spread her arms and brought them sharply down as the templars screamed in unison. Even the Commander, she realised, forgetting her earlier determination to ignore him as she watched him throw his head back and fight helplessly against the bonds. Thick red stripes appeared across their chest, bleeding down across their oiled skin to pool at their groin and drip down their legs.

Blood magic. Even cut off from her own magic, she could still taste the power in the air, a heady, sensual impression that curled around her tongue and made her shiver.

The woman laughed as the templars slumped back down into their bindings. The one on the end - the one she hadn't known the name of - was suddenly released, and fell heavily to the floor. Jerkily, he got back up to his feet and took a few hesitant, stumbling steps towards the mage, whose fingers flexed in concentration. As the templar dropped to one knee, with sickening subservience, Evelyn realised he was being controlled.

Her templars had been turned into puppets.

Her breath shuddered out from her, and the hand on her shoulder tightened in anticipation, but she did not do anything but continue to watch as the woman approached her, the templar like a puppy at her side, though his face was frozen in anguish.

"They're so much better when they're obedient, don't you think?" The woman stroked one hand against an oiled bicep, as Evelyn stood there, powerless. "It will make everything much simpler if they don't try and fight back."

The woman's hand dropped to the templar's chest and traced some sort of rune in the blood there, elaborate flowing lines, coating her fingers in blood. For a moment Evelyn thought she might lick it off, but she swept two fingers across Evelyn's face instead, and she had to fight the urge to rub it off. "Their blood is on your head, Inquisitor. If you don't want there to be more, I suggest you do as you're told."

Her gaze flicked to Evelyn's companion. "Get the others cut down, and put them all back in the wagon. Find me when you're done."


End file.
